


Advanced Debts, Duels, and Declarations

by ScreamingAtTheSky



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29594319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreamingAtTheSky/pseuds/ScreamingAtTheSky
Summary: She’s about to say screw this job when she notices an absurdly tall figure enter the bar and make a beeline for her. Jeff. It’s as if she’d conjured him. As if he knew somehow that she was desperate to see the only man within 100 miles who didn’t make her feel like clawing her own eyes out or bathing in bleach. She watches his confident swagger as he approaches, meets his close-lipped smile with one of her own, and lets the warmth that she feels pool in her belly overtake her for a little bit. It’s as if everyone parts to make room for him so he can stand right in front of her and, just like that, he’s there, leaning one thick arm on the bar and bending slightly so that he’s almost face-to-face with her and she feels ok again.“Britta.”“Jeff.”“Good night?”“Not particularly. But it’s looking up.”**It's after Season 6. Britta is working at The Vatican and is surrounded by terrible men. Her night improves when Jeff comes to visit her and, when he finds it necessary, puts those toned muscles of his to good use. OH, and they're in love. Duh. This one is very Britta-centric because she's my favorite ever. Hope this brings you joy!**
Relationships: Britta Perry/Jeff Winger
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	Advanced Debts, Duels, and Declarations

Men are the worst. No, you know what? Men is too generous a descriptor for the veritable _clowns_ she’s been exposed to lately. _Boys_. All Britta sees are boys as she scans the clientele at The Vatican tonight from her semi-safe spot behind the bar. Immature, pathetic, loud, ridiculous boys. And even more upsetting than the fact that these are the nimrods who will continue to run this country for the foreseeable future is the painful injustice that she can’t even shout her disgust in their faces and vandalize their cars and spit in their drinks like she wants to. No, she has to serve them. She has to smile sweetly at their vulgar jokes and pretend to be flattered when they offer to take her home and act like the dollar tips they give her are enough compensation for having to listen to them drone on and on about women and sports and protein drinks _all freakin’ night_.

She rolls her eyes because it’s the only defense she has right now and asks herself for the thousandth time how her life has come to this. Seriously, how did she get here? It felt like just yesterday she was registering for courses at Greendale Community College and finally declaring a major in Psychology and yet, here she is, six blurry years later, still attending school there and working as an underpaid and underappreciated bartender just to pay her bills and pass the time with nothing but memories of space buses and games of Dungeons & Dragons and elaborate heists to show for it.

 _Don’t do this right now, Britta. You’ll get there at your own pace_ , she thinks, in an attempt to comfort herself as she rushes to clean up a spill made by a sloppy drunk at the far end of the bar. Her manager, Carl (yet another douchebag to add to her ever-growing collection) hates messes. He says you can water down your shots and serve crap food all you want, but if a bar _looks_ bad, no one will ever come back, or some bullshit like that. She feels like she spends more time clearing tables and wiping away drinks than she actually spends making them, but she needs this job so pointing that out and arguing about it is not really an option. 

But the truth is, no matter how many times she imagines drowning Carl in a puddle of spilled beer or repeats platitudes from her “Inspirational Words of the Day” calendar in her mind, Britta is at a low point. She has so many dreams, so many things she’d like to accomplish, but time just keeps passing and even though it seems like everyone and everything around her is moving at lightning speed, she just feels stuck, frozen in place.

“Hey, Blondie!” She hears Carl shout to her from a few feet away, never bothering to learn her name even though she’s worked here over a year now. “You got customers! Get your head out of your ass!”

A few of the thirty year old frat boys at the bar laugh and she has to physically bite her tongue to keep from snapping at him – oh, the way she could obliterate him with just a few choice adjectives – and gives him a close-lipped smile and a thumbs up, pretending that she’s raising a different finger to him instead. She looks around the bar and sees the customer Carl was talking about, his hand raised politely, almost like he’s in a classroom. It’s a welcome change from the urgent pounding on the bar and impatient whistles she’s used to, so she approaches him quickly and gives him an honest smile.

“Sorry for the wait,” she says, trying to sound like she means it, rather than snapping it sarcastically like she usually does when no one bothers to notice that she’s the only bartender serving upwards of twenty customers. “What can I get you?”

Suddenly, the guy’s neutral face turns lascivious, and his eyes narrow as he leers at her. “Well, I was going to ask for a rum and coke, but now I think I’ll just take an order of _you_ instead. To go.” He reaches out and skims his fingers along the arm she is resting on the bar, and she pulls it away immediately.

“I’m not on the menu,” she spits, giving him a look that she hopes conveys the message that she thinks he’s a parasite. But she can see Carl watching out of the corner of her eye and, even though this is 2015, he’s still under the impression that the customer is always right, even when that customer is a creepy perv, so she dials back the snark. “But I can get you my number with that drink, if you’d like.”

“It’s a start,” he says, looking like he’s won the first round of some game and it’s just made him hungry for more.

Britta smiles to herself as she turns to make his drink, proud of how she’d handled that. She’d managed to keep her cool and solve her problem with one lie. Coming up with a random combination of numbers will be easy enough to give this guy and, he might even get so drunk by the end of the night that he won’t even remember at all. One can dream.

“I’m Steve, by the way,” he says, as she passes him his drink.

“I didn’t ask,” she replies curtly, checking to see if there’s another customer she can busy herself with to avoid any further conversations with this guy. No such luck. A room of satisfied customers. Her friends had once mocked her for being a bad bartender but, the truth is, she is actually pretty good at it. Not that that’s proving helpful right _now_.

She begrudgingly glances at Steve again, and he takes this as an invitation to keep talking.

“Yeah, but you wanted to. I can tell.”

And, apparently, to try flirting. _Yuck_.

“Really? You can read my mind?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Britta leans in a little closer to him, making the searing eye contact she’s perfected over the years thanks to a certain ex-lawyer-turned-fuck buddy-turned-best friend. “So what am I thinking now?”

Steve looks into her eyes for a moment, his expression nowhere near as powerful as the one she’s used to seeing staring back at her from her seat at the study room table. She smirks slightly, thinking about how Jeff would eat this guy for breakfast, and her stomach flutters a little bit at the thought. That’s been happening more and more lately when she thinks of Jeff, which is often. Just the idea of him seems to be giving her butterflies, which is not really a feeling she’s used to, and she’s not sure when this started or even where it came from. In some ways, feelings for him are always there, just resting in the background, whispering in her ear or shooting her a wink on occasion, usually when Jeff wears a shirt that brings out the blue in his eyes or says something particularly funny or admits she’s right about a point she’d been making. But recently, those feelings had been coming to the foreground, demanding to be seen and heard. Not one to acknowledge her feelings basically ever – unless she’s talking about indigenous peoples, the rain forests, the horrors of white supremacy, or a myriad of other social justice issues – she usually ignores them, making it a point to only settle on them when she really needs some comfort, like in this present moment.

“Right now, you’re thinking about some pretty nasty things you’d like to do to me.” Steve winks at her, and Britta’s stomach turns in a different way.

“Wow. You’re good.” The sarcasm in her tone is borderline unmistakable, but Steve doesn’t seem to get it, choosing instead to double down on what he thinks is her inability to resist his persistence.

“So, what kind of things do you want to do to me?”

 _Oh, Steve_ , she thinks to herself, _I’ve seen irresistible buddy, and you ain’t it_. No, there was only one man who’d proven to be irresistible to her after all these years. She thought it had been her carnival-worker-ex-boyfriend Blade, but just a few choice words from Jeff about loving ourselves and he had popped right out of her mind like a balloon coming out of a clown’s head. Yes, Jeff had proven to have some kind of hold over her that she couldn’t quite describe. Something about him just meshed with something about her. She’d known it since they met, and denied it just as long, but something about the fact that so many of their friends had moved on with their lives by now, taken chances, chased dreams, made her want to be a little more open and honest, too. At least, with herself.

She had hoped that her thoughts of Jeff would make Steve fade off into the distance, but it seems he’s settled in for the night.

“Oh, a lady never tells,” she attempts to sound flirtatious, but she can hear the pain in her own voice when she responds.

“I get the feeling you’re no lady, Blondie,” he chuckles and winks again, and she wants to slap the look off his face.

“My name is Britta,” she snaps, regretting it almost immediately. This guy doesn’t deserve to know _anything_ about her. 

She’s about to say screw this job and tell him as much when she notices an absurdly tall figure enter the bar and make a beeline for her. _Jeff_. It’s as if she’d conjured him. As if he knew somehow that she was desperate to see the only man within 100 miles who didn’t make her feel like clawing her own eyes out or bathing in bleach. She watches his confident swagger as he approaches, meets his close-lipped smile with one of her own, and lets the warmth that she feels pool in her belly overtake her for a little bit. It’s as if everyone parts to make room for him so he can stand right in front of her (she can only imagine being tall and imposing has its advantages – she wouldn’t know, of course) and, just like that, he’s there, leaning one thick arm on the bar and bending slightly so that he’s almost face-to-face with her and she feels ok again. Not great, because she can still see Steve watching her out of the corner of her eye and she can still hear the racist joke the guy in the plaid shirt is telling off to her left and Carl hasn’t shouted at her in at least ten minutes which can only mean he’s ramping up to something, but Jeff is _here_. And that makes all of those other things just a little more tolerable. Well, except for the systemic racism, but she can only deal with one issue at a time, people.

“Britta.”

“Jeff.”

“Good night?”

“Not particularly. But it’s looking up.” The words slip out before she can overanalyze saying them and for once she doesn’t regret it. Her night is better now that Jeff is here and she’s comfortable with the idea that he knows that. “What brings you here tonight?”

She shouldn’t actually be surprised that he’s there at The Vatican at all. Jeff shows up here just about once a week and hangs out for hours, keeping her company on slow nights and sometimes even helping behind the bar on busy ones, only when Carl is nowhere to be found, of course. But it’s developed into an unwritten rule between them that they both act like it’s a treat when he comes to visit her at the bar, not an expectation.

“I heard the service here is second-to-none.”

“Uh, excuse me—” Steve interjects, pointing a finger up in the air.

“Not now Steve, I’m with a customer,” she says, never breaking eye contact with Jeff while she addresses the other man.

Jeff tilts his head to the side and nods once, “Seems I heard wrong.”

“Your usual?”

“Why not? I’ve got nothing to do tomorrow.”

Britta narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t you teach two classes on Fridays?”

“Yeah. At _Greendale_ , Britta. They practically _invented_ the hungover professor.”

She could point out that he’s not _actually_ a professor. She could point out that he loves Greendale and his teaching job there more than he’ll ever admit. But what would be the point? She knows those things, and he knows she knows them too. While she usually revels in highlighting his perpetual avoidance of self-awareness, tonight, she’s just glad he’s here.

“Ok, scotch neat, coming up, and I’ll make it a double – one for each class,” she says, turning away from him to pour his drink.

“Hey, Britta, I’ll take another too,” interjects Steve, and she sees him shoot Jeff a look of annoyance when she turns to hand him his scotch.

“You got it,” she says, flashing him the phoniest smile she can muster.  
If anyone can recognize all of her tells, it’s Jeff, so it’s no surprise when he laughs a little as she stands in front of him again, shaking his head from side to side.

“What did that guy do to deserve the Britta wrath?” He almost whispers his question, as if the two of them are sharing a secret that is no one else’s to know – and, honestly, aren’t they always?

“What are you talking about Winger? I wasn’t mean.”

“I know. You _smiled_ at him. It was so much worse.” Jeff pretends to shudder as he says this, and Britta can’t help but laugh. Like it or not, this man knows her.

“He didn’t do anything, exactly. He’s just...creepy. And forward. And I doubt he has a solid handle on consent,” she whispers back, her voice getting raspier with each word as her anger builds at the thought of all the women this man has probably made uncomfortable before her.

“Easy,” Jeff says, reaching across the bar and forcing her fingers out of the fist into which she’d unknowingly clenched them. “You need me to talk to him?”

Britta looks down at her palm where Jeff’s hand had just been. She can still feel the tingling left behind by his touch and it makes her feel alive in a way she hasn’t in a long time. She smiles at him gratefully, but with a hint of exasperation. “No thank you, He-Man. He’s gross, but harmless. No need for you to get involved.”

Jeff shrugs his wide shoulders and narrows his eyes at her. “He-Man, Britta? Seriously? Not Thor? Captain America? I’ll take any of the Avengers, really.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, _that’s_ what your ego needs.”

She can tell Jeff is about to volley back when they’re both startled by Carl’s intrusive shout from the door to the kitchen, “Blondie! Get over here!”

“Wow, they’re all winners in here,” Jeff says sarcastically, and Britta just nods in response as she jogs off to see what Carl wants. She’s sure she’s done _something_ wrong, but since nothing seems to make him happy, what it is she can’t put her finger on.

“I have to cut out early tonight – my wife needs me at home.” While his words are pretty basic, saying the tone behind them is frustrated would be underselling it.

“You’re _married_?” She can’t help but ask, incredulous. In over a year of working together, she’d never heard him mention a wife. Not only is marriage an antiquated practice, she can’t for the life of her imagine what woman would choose to spend the rest of her life with this human turd. 

“Yeah, Theresa, and she’s sick. It’s a real pain in my ass. Anyway, the keg needs to be tapped. And remember to wipe the bar down after shots, it looks like shit.” Before she can ask how she’s supposed to do all of that and serve drinks to all the customers alone, he turns to leave, a quick nod of his head meant to serve as a goodbye. He glances at her over his shoulder to speak once more, “Oh, and stop talking to your boyfriend. This is a bar, Blondie. These guys gotta think they have a chance with you. That’s what keeps them drinking!” He smiles widely at her, like he’s just made some kind of groundbreaking observation about the human condition, instead of making her feel, once again, like a piece of meat. Once he leaves, she turns on her heels, her head pounding from his quick directions and brusque tone.

She must look awestruck when she returns to the bar because Jeff’s brow furrows in concern. “You ok, Britta?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she responds, not making eye contact. “My boss is just – you know what, it doesn’t matter. I just have a lot to do.” 

She sighs, checking to see that no one needs her and steeling herself to head off to complete the arduous task of tapping the new keg when, as if to make a bad night even worse, a new group of rowdy guys enters the bar. They’re all wearing baseball uniforms and backwards caps and they’re caked in dirt and sweat. They look ecstatic and one of them reaches out to high five her across the bar as he says, “We won sweetheart! First time in five years! Those Main Street Jewelers can suck it! Tequila shots for all my guys, on me – and keep ‘em coming all night!”

Jeff raises his eyebrows at her when he sees her crestfallen reaction. “You have money on the Main Street Jewelers or something?” he asks, bringing a smile to her face.

“No, I just had some other things that Carl asked me to do that now I can’t do because I have to get shots for the Bad News Bears.”

Jeff nods in appreciation. “Nice movie reference. Abed would be proud.”

“Thanks. Him and Troy made me watch it like a dozen times. As soon as I’m done pouring these shots, I will get you another drink, promise,” she says, nodding at his empty glass.  


“No rush, I’ll make it myself.” He doesn’t even wait for an answer, just gets up and walks around the side of the bar to make his way behind it. He looks completely at home there next to her, but that’s Jeff. He looks like he belongs anywhere and everywhere because he can adapt to basically any situation. She doesn’t think she’d ever say it to his face, but Britta envies that about him.

Jeff starts pouring scotch for himself as she lays out 12 shot glasses and fills them with Patron – hey, if these guys are going to be drinking all night, she’s serving up the good stuff and making some money. She starts handing off the shots to the baseball team players, and she notices Jeff watching her with a small smile. She’s not sure what’s amusing about what she’s doing, but she’s too focused on not spilling anything to give it much thought.

“Hey Britta, I’ll take another rum and coke,” she can hear Steve say loudly off to her right. He’s like one of her new kittens, desperate for her attention, except not at all adorable. She tries very hard not to roll her eyes as she hands off the last shot to the guy who high-fived her, but she can’t help the slump of defeat in her shoulders.

“I’ll get that for you,” she hears Jeff’s voice say, and she feels like a weight has been lifted off of her, even for a second. She takes this opportunity to wipe down the bar and let a smile play on her lips.

“Oh, that’s ok boss, I’d rather the pretty lady do it.” Steve may have many talents, although she doubts that highly, but it seems that taking a hint is not one of them.

“Well the pretty lady is busy, _boss_ , so you got me. Besides, I’m prettier.”

She looks over at Jeff and he smiles at her. She smiles back, gratefully, already refilling the shots for the baseball team while he makes Steve’s drink as the latter pouts like a baby.

When everything finally settles down, she sidles up to Jeff as he leans against the bar and bumps him with her shoulder. “Thanks for helping me,” she says, looking into his clear blue eyes and letting herself feel it deep inside, the intensity, the powerful charge that she usually ignores.

“It’s my pleasure,” he replies, and it’s almost sincere, but she can hear something creeping underneath his tone that only _she_ can recognize.

She eyes him suspiciously and asks, “What’s the catch, Winger?”

Jeff leans down impossibly close to her, places one hand on the small of her back, and says, “Fine. Doing this for you means you owe me. And I plan on collecting.”

The look in his eyes, the pressure of his palm on her back, and the words he’s just uttered fill her with such heat, if someone lit a match near her right now, she’s pretty sure this whole bar would go up in flames. She’s sure her feelings are reflected in her eyes as she says, “You know I hate being indebted to you. It puts me in such an awkward position.” She shoots him what she hopes is a seductive pout – this whole intentionally sexy thing isn’t really her area of expertise.

“I seem to remember putting you in a lot of awkward positions...”

She smacks him in the chest. “Don’t be gross, Jeff!” She laughs, but some particularly raunchy memories from their year of secret sex do flash through her brain in response to his words. 

“Hey, bartender!”

They both turn in the direction of the voice, the guy from the baseball team.

“Yeah?” Jeff answers, and Britta looks up at him closely, taken aback that he seems to have taken on this role as if it is his own.

“Can we get a couple pitchers of Coors Light over here?”

“Ugh, might as well just drink water,” Jeff whispers to her. “No problem,” he calls, and then looks at her expectantly. He’s under the impression that his work is done, but little does he know, she has another idea in mind.

She looks down at her feet and then back up and into his eyes. “Hey, since I do already owe you, feel like doing me one more little favor?”

“I don’t think you understand how _owing_ someone works.”

“Please?”

“Don’t beg, Britta. It’s unseemly.”

She feels her shoulders stiffen. “Fine,” she says, haughtily. “Tap the keg for me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Please tell me that’s a euphemism.”

“Only if a euphemism means exactly what it’s supposed to mean.” She gives him a wide grin and mentally crosses her fingers that he can’t resist it. “Come on, help a sister out.”

“You are _not_ my sister, Britta.”

“Duh doy. But they want beer and the only way to do that is if the keg is tapped, but I can’t just go back there and do it because I need to be behind the bar for everyone else...” She lets her voice trail off, hoping he’ll understand the gravity of the situation.

“Ugh. Why do I have to have the body of a superhero?” He directs his question to the sky.

“Sucks to be He-Man.”

“Thor.”

“Whatever. Will you do it?”

“You’re the worst,” he says, as he walks to the back of the bar where the keg is located. 

Britta smiles to herself, content to have someone she can count on in this life and still shocked as hell that that person is Jeff Winger. When they’d met six years ago, her douche-ray vision had pegged him as a womanizing scoundrel who would lie and manipulate anyone and everyone to get what he wanted. And she had been completely right. Then. But over time, she watched Jeff grow and evolve, using all of his best qualities to help others rather than hurt them, to inspire confidence and acceptance over compliance, and give his heart in ways she was certain he’d never thought possible. It was an understatement to say she was proud of him. And having him in her life had gone from being a somewhat-amusing burden to nothing short of a necessity.

“You’re spending a lot of time with that guy, Britta. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make me jealous.”

She hears Steve’s voice and her skin crawls. _What is this guy’s deal?_ she thinks to herself. He’s got to be the smarmiest guy she’s ever had the displeasure of talking to – like Pierce must have been forty years ago. _Just a couple more hours with him. You can do this_ , she reassures herself.

“Be careful. Play too hard to get and I might lose interest.”

_Nope. Can’t do this._

“I’m so sorry if I gave you the impression that I was trying to make you jealous, Steve. It certainly wasn’t my intention.” She lets the sarcasm drip from her lips like lava pouring down the sides of a volcano. “Because I would not sleep with you in a million years. You’re arrogant and rude and way too aggressive. In fact, I find men like you repulsive. It makes you feel powerful to stake your claim on women, as if we’re still property.” She points her finger in his face. “Nobody owns me, Steve. _Especially_ not you. Got it?”

Steve just smiles in the face of her outburst. “Feisty. I like it,” he sneers. She lets out a frustrated groan and turns her back on him, just in time to see Jeff come back from tapping the keg, two frothy pitchers of beer in hand.

“That,” he says, as he hands her the pitchers, “was not fun.” He points to a stain on the expensive dark grey sweater he’s wearing.

“Sorry,” she says, and means it, “but I guarantee I was having a worse time out here.” She silently motions toward Steve and Jeff nods in understanding. 

“Well, I think my bartending days are officially over. For tonight, anyway.” He gives her shoulder the quickest squeeze before returning to his seat on the other side of the bar, and somehow that gesture brings her all the comfort she needs to get through the rest of this night. She delivers the pitchers and several glasses to the baseball team and they all thank her politely. For a loud group of athletes, they’d been kind and fun, and actually turned out to be the second-best surprise of the night. The best surprise, of course, being someone else.

She sees Jeff talking to Steve, and she’s relieved to have a break from his advances so she can check on the customers on the other side of the bar – a middle-aged couple who seem to be enjoying a date night of sorts. She hasn’t tended to them in a bit, not wanting to disturb their seemingly intimate conversation, but they’d been drinking expensive vodka earlier, and the possibility of a good tip outweighs her usual desire to respect people’s privacy. 

She walks toward the couple with a big smile, ready to make up for her absence, when she hears a loud crash from behind her and a collective gasp from the crowd. She turns quickly on her heels to see Jeff and Steve tangled together; their arms are wrapped around each other almost as if they’re in an embrace. Normally she’d make a comment about the underlying homoeroticism in their position but seeing a fight this heated unfold right in front of her is actually somewhat frightening, especially when one contender is someone she cares about greatly. And, God help her, it’s also a teensy bit arousing.  


Jeff pulls one massive arm back and takes a swing at Steve, his fist connecting with Steve’s face with a deafening crack. Jeff has about twenty pounds of muscle on his opponent, but apparently Steve is hellbent on saving face or maybe has a death wish or something because he is not backing down. He punches Jeff hard in the stomach, causing him to lose his breath and double over in pain. Jeff bounces back quickly, a look of fury on his face, and he lunges at Steve seemingly to throw him to the ground, but Steve is too quick, and he dodges Jeff’s rush. Jeff slams into the bar and Britta jumps. She wants to step in, to break them apart, to inflict more pain on Steve than she thought humanly possible, but it’s like she’s been shocked into stillness. Her propensity to protect and defend has been overcome by her fear that something could happen to Jeff tonight, something painful, something serious. And all without her getting a chance to tell him that she could stare at his smile for hours at a time and she actually likes his inspirational speeches and when she rests her head in the crook of his neck and breathes him in, he smells like home. 

Britta and everyone else watch, transfixed, as Steve picks up an empty beer bottle off an abandoned table (ugh, Carl was right, she _should_ keep the place cleaner) and points it at the back of Jeff’s head, a sinister look in his swollen eyes. She might not believe in God, but even she has to admit that it’s nothing short of a miracle that she finds her voice in that moment.

“Jeff!” She shouts, and he turns his head toward her, looking somewhat disoriented. “Behind you!”

Jeff turns to face Steve just in time. He grabs Steve’s outstretched wrist and wrestles the bottle from him, tossing it against the wall so that the glass shatters, but nowhere near any patrons. The look in Jeff’s eyes right now is unlike anything she’s ever seen before – and they’ve shared some pretty intense stares. If looks could kill, Steve would be dead on the floor. Jeff grabs Steve by the collar of his shirt and lifts him a full foot off the ground, throwing him backwards. 

“Get out of here!” Jeff roars and Steve stumbles as he races toward the door. “Don’t come back!” Jeff shouts at his retreating frame before he slumps down in a chair, eyes closed, his face bloody and his shirt torn across the chest.

Britta stares at him for a moment before she’s able to act. “Ok, everyone out!” she announces to the few people left in the bar – most had already left on their own accord, so upset by what they’d seen. She pries her phone out of her back pocket and calls an ambulance, telling them her friend has been attacked and to come immediately. 

When everything has been handled and she knows medical professionals are on the way, she finally approaches Jeff. She’s not sure why, but she’s afraid to talk to him, afraid that what happened is her fault somehow and he won’t hesitate to tell her that. Afraid that, after this, he’ll never want to come around again.

“Hey,” she says gently, sitting down beside him. She studies his handsome face and the damage there. He looks broken, defeated, and yet, sexy as hell. “You want me to get you some ice?”

“Oh, yeah, sure Britta. That’s the cure-all for cracked ribs and a broken nose. Ice.” His tone is biting, and he rolls his eyes, but she doesn’t get angry at him. She only feels relief. He’s still _her_ Jeff, even behind the blood and bruising, which means she can still talk to him in the way to which they’d both become accustomed.

“Well, if you don’t want ice, I could try to get Steve back here and get his number for you.” She points her thumb toward the door.

“Britta, there’s no way you can still think men fight because they’re expressing repressed homosexual tendencies.”

“After _that_ performance? How could I not? I’m pretty sure you guys almost kissed like three times.”

Jeff laughs and winces, holding onto his ribs. “Don’t make me laugh.”

She shrugs. “Can’t make any promises.”

He smiles at her. “You’re a ridiculous person.”

“This coming from the guy who is so desperate to show off his delts that he just happened to rip his shirt in exactly the right place?” She narrows her eyes at him.

“I did _not_ rip my own shirt, Britta. And the chest muscles are pecs. Not delts.”

“Wow. Even half-dead you’re still a douche.”

“You know, you could be a little nicer to me right now. I did this for you,” he says, and then makes a face that looks like he wants to immediately grab the words back.

“What?”

“Nothing. Forget it. You know what, I think I will take that ice—” 

“Too late. Tell me what you meant, Jeff. You did _what_ for me?”

Jeff sighs and his shoulders slump even more. Britta’s face hardens, showing him that she’s not backing down from this. “Fine. I just meant that Steve made some...comments about you that I didn’t like. So, I told him so. And now he won’t make them anymore.”

Britta is silent for a moment. “What did he say?”

“Not important.”

“Jeff.”

“I’m serious, Britta. It doesn’t matter what he said.”

She brushes her fingertips across his cheek, and he flinches slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know. But he’s an asshole. He deserved what he got.” 

He leans back again and closes his eyes, giving her the chance to study his wounds more closely. There’s a deep gash on his left cheek – he might have a scar. It’s like she’s on a roller coaster in her mind – she hates that he did this for her and she loves that he did this for her at the same time. She doesn’t love that he’s been hurt, but she can’t help but revel in the fact that, of all her friends, Jeff can actually be the cruelest to her, but when the chips are down, when it really matters, he has her back more than anyone. She’s so overwhelmed with emotion that she has to let it out somehow or she fears she might explode so she does the first thing that pops into her mind. She kisses him, ever so lightly, the softest press of her lips to his. It’s no more than a whisper on his lips, another secret that is only theirs to share. He opens his eyes and they stare at each other for a beat.

“What was that for?” He finally asks.

She shrugs. “I owed you.”

“If you think _that’s_ enough payback for tonight—” 

“Jeff,” she says, cutting him off. “Thank you.”

He looks around the bar at the damaged tables, broken bottles, and blood stains before meeting her eyes once more. “So, you’re not mad at me?”

She gives him a close-lipped smile. “Well, what you did _was_ dumb. And barbaric. But...sweet. So no, I’m not mad at you.” Taking in everything that happened between them tonight, both before the fight and after, she pushes her fear aside and says the one thing that neither of them ever allows themselves to say, not anymore. “I’m pretty in love with you, actually.”

Jeff looks at her with wide eyes. “You’re in love with me?”

His voice doesn’t sound angry or incredulous or disgusted. It sounds...happy. Britta presses on. “Yeah. I am. And it sucks. _You_ suck!”

Jeff laughs from deep in his throat. “Sounds about right.”

“Are you upset?”

“Upset? That you love me?” He gives her an exasperated sigh. “Britta. I’m bleeding from three different parts of my face. I come to this shitty bar every week to see _you_. I’ve sat in the same seat at the study room table for six years to be next to _you_. I gave up a career as a successful lawyer and became a _teacher_ because of _you_.”

“Hey, I didn’t force you to do any of those things, Jeff.”

“I know you didn’t force me to do them. You _inspired_ me. Don’t be dumb.”

She frowns. Is this a romantic moment between them or not? It can be so hard to tell sometimes. “Don’t call me dumb.”

He tilts his head at her. “Technically I didn’t call you dumb. I told you not to be dumb.”

She groans. “Can you not Winger me right now?”

“Sorry.” He holds his palms out on either side of his head, fingers spread apart in surrender as he continues, and the move is just so _Jeff_ , she can’t help but smile. “My point is, I’m not upset that you love me. In fact, I’d be more upset if you said you _didn’t_. Because...I love _you_ , Britta.”

His voice goes up slightly at the end, like he’s asking her a question, or seeking her approval. It’s like he wants her to tell him that what he’s just told her won’t be the end of them, that it won’t all go up in flames eventually and destroy everything they’ve worked so hard to build. Unfortunately, she can’t do that. But she can let him know that she’s in this if he is. Britta Perry doesn’t back down from a challenge, and loving Jeff Winger is probably the most challenging thing she’s ever done. And she lived in _New York_.

She does want to bring him some comfort though, to reassure him. She wants to kiss him again, to climb into his arms and settle in his lap and spend the rest of the night there, just arguing and bickering and laughing and making out. But the sound of sirens approaching reminds them of his need for immediate medical attention, so she squeezes his hand and rises to meet the EMTs at the door.

“Britta,” he calls to her from his seat, and she turns toward him, eyebrows raised in response. “Am I still He-Man?”

“No,” she shoots back, and almost laughs at how quickly his bruised face falls. She waits a beat for effect. “You’re more like Thor.”

She sees his chest swell with pride at her words and it warms her insides. She still has goals to accomplish and dreams to chase, and she might be nowhere near as close to achieving them as she’d like to be, but having Jeff by her side will make the whole ride a hell of a lot more fun. Assuming they can avoid bar fights in the future, of course. But honestly, between the two of them, a cunning liar and an outspoken anarchist, what’s really the chance of _that_ happening?


End file.
